"Fuck that. If you don’t tell me right now—"
The sound of honking reaches me over the line.
"Bloody cunt," he swears.
"What?"
"Not you. This fucker who’s trying to overtake me—what the hell—?" he swears aloud again. There’s more honking, the sound of brakes screeching.
"Weston, what the fuck—?"
The sound of metal scraping against metal, then Weston’s voice comes on the phone again, "Shit, Saint, this is not over not by a long shot. She’s preg—"
The line goes dead.
"The fuck?"
I glare at the receiver. My fingers tremble and my knuckles are white. How strange. I place the phone back in the cradle. Then reach for my phone. She’s what? She’s…fine. She has to be. And Weston? Shit, my heart begins to race. The noise in my head clears. He was in an accident. I need to get to him. I reach for the phone and dial my operative.
Half an hour later, I race up the corridor of the Whittington hospital. My investigator had tracked down Weston with a speed that had impressed even me. Well, I owe her a small fortune—but she’d delivered. This time, I barrel into the private room, and swerve. A jug of water misses me narrowly and crashes to the floor behind me.
"The fuck?"
I glance at Weston, sprawled on the hospital bed. His arm is in a sling, cuts and bruises mar his face, and his shirt is torn… Other than that, he seems fine. Which is more than I can say about the white-faced nurse who turns to me.
She throws up her hands, "Are you family?"
"A friend."
"Fine. Then," she thrusts a small plastic cap filled with pills at me, "you make him take those."
She brushes past me.
"Hold on, is he okay?"
"He won’t be able to use his arm for a little while." She raises her shoulders.
"The fuck?" He snarls, "I am a surgeon. I need to use my hands."
She winces, then turns and scurries from the room.
I turn to face my friend. Sweat beads his forehead and dirt smudges his face.
"You okay?"
He sets his jaw, "Totally."
I glance at the pills.
"You’re not going to make me take those," he growls.
"Nah, man." I set them down on the table next to the bed, "I am not your nurse. Besides, you’re funny about painkillers, right?"
"Yeah," he scowls at his injured arm. "The fuckers say I need to rest my hand," he growls.
"What happened?" I ask.
His face reddens, "I fractured my finger, apparently."
"Finger?" I clear my throat, "Don't tell me... It's..."
"My fucking middle finger." He holds up his hand with the sling, showing me the bird... Or rather, his middle finger in a splint.
He winces, then lowers his hand. "Hurts like a bitch, too," he grumbles.
A chuckle bubbles up; I change it to a snort.
"You think this is a joke, Caldwell?"
"Of course, not." I keep the grin on my face though. "You're a doctor. Can't you make them change the diagnosis?"
He glowers back, "Funny. Should I laugh at that?"
"Don’t care, ol' chap, just don't cry on my shoulder."
He pushes into the bed, "Why are you here, you dickhead?"
I stop laughing. "What happened?" I lean forward.
"This car came out of nowhere and forced me off the road."
"You sure?" I steeple my fingers together.
"Do I look like I am kidding?"
"No," I drag my fingers through my hair. "Well, the good news is, it’s only a fracture."
"To my hand. My right hand. My fucking dominant hand. You know what this means, right?"
I straighten, "You’ll be out of commission for a little time?"
"I am a surgeon, asshole. If the arm doesn’t mend properly, I’ll never be able to operate again."
"Shit," I pale. "I’m sorry man."
"Fuck." He bangs his head back against the headboard, "Fucking, fuck."
"Easy." I frown down at my friend, "At least, you’re alive."
"They weren’t trying to kill me, just put me out of commission."
"By causing you to fracture your middle finger?"
He scoffs, "It wasn’t an accident, man, I’ll tell you that."
"So, you think this was done on purpose?" I frown.
"Sure seems that way to me?"
"Why would anyone want you out of commission?"
"Beats the hell out of me." He straightens his shoulders, "One thing is for sure, we need to double the security on all of the Seven and those who matter to us."
A frisson runs down my spine, "Before the accident, you said something, before you got cut off..."
"That I was being forced off the road?" His forehead crinkles.
"No at the end, you said Victoria was…"
"Pregnant."
"Shit." The world sways around me. I sink into the chair, "That's what she was trying to tell me."
"She told you and you let her go?" he snaps.
"Not exactly..." I stab the heel of my shoe into the floor. "She asked me a riddle, which I couldn’t solve—"
"Hold on." He leans forward, "She asked you a riddle."
"Yeah."
His gaze widens, "You never allow anyone to challenge you."
"I let her, okay?" I squeeze my eyes shut. "Only her," I swallow. "It’s complicated."
"No shit."
I hear the smile in his voice, crack my eyelids open. "Don’t feed me a line about sentimentalism and all that shit."
"You’re doing that, all by yourself."
I sink back in my chair, massage my chest, "I think I’m going to have a cardiac."
"Handy I’m right here, then, isn’t it?"
"Har, har," I snarl. " You’re fucking annoying, man. “
"Speak for yourself.”
"Fuck this shit." I dig my fingers into my hair and pull at it, "Why couldn’t she tell me?"
"It sounds like she did," he says. “You simply didn’t want to answer the riddle."
"She could have simply told me, you know?"
"And then what? Would you have accepted her and the child?"
"Maybe. I don’t know." I lower my chin to my chest, mumble, "This is bloody complicated."
"Tell me about it."
I glance up to find him staring at the sling.
"I’m sorry about your finger."
He sighs, "Me too." He grabs another pillow and props it behind his shoulder, "What are you going to do now—?"
My phone buzzes.
I pull it out. It’s a message from an unknown number. Huh? I swipe open the message.
Come and get her.
